Service With A Smile
by MindBottled
Summary: Some days, all it takes is a simple request to cause things to spiral out of control.


**Disclaimer: **I do not own Scott Pilgrim. Those rights belong to Bryan Lee O'Mally.

**Author's Note: **One-shot! For some reason, every time I try to write Matthew Patel, he ends up sounding very pomp. Anyway, enjoy!

**Pairing: **Matthew Patel/Kim Pine, subtle mentioning's of Kim/Scott, Ramona/Scott, and Ramona/Matthew

* * *

_**Ding, ding!**_

The little brass bell (otherwise known as the bane of Kim Pine's working existence) is ringing, which can only mean bad things for her.

Or worse, annoyances.

She scoots further down in her seat behind the counter as the glass doors slide shut, pretending to be preoccupied with whatever self-help book her manager had 'conveniently' left behind. Today it's 'Romance and You: A Guide to Healing'.

Apparently, her coworkers were under the assumption that her surly, disillusioned demeanor stems from a deep, spiraling depression over the state of her romantic affairs instead of just her general contempt for the world.

What a load of crap.

Of course, their stupidity did have its advantages, the main one being an excuse not to deal with customers. Unfortunately, that only works if _other _employees were on shift; she mentally curses Tim for calling in sick this morning.

As the footfalls begin to draw in closer, her customer service countdown(much to her horror and chagrin) immediately starts to tick.

_3..._

_2…_

_1…_

"Can I help you?" She asks, not even bothering to look up from her novel(there's no way this BS constitutes as non-fiction).

It's more or less the customer-friendly way of saying, _hi, please leave before I shove my foot up one of your extremities, _if her sunny disposition hasn't already clued them in.

"Do you have Night of the Living Dead?"

Vintage, horror, Romero; a solid choice.

Ordinarily, this is at least worth a nod of acknowledgement for their sterling cinematic preferences but today she's not in the mood. Coincidentally, this is also the day that Scott Pilgrim plans on proposing to Ramona Flowers. Of course, as so often is the case in life, these two events have no relevance to each other.

No relevance whatsoever.

"No." She says flatly, absentmindedly batting a stray strand of hair out of her face before flipping the page.

The next line of questioning is almost a given at this point, a natural response given the circumstances; her eyes skim through the new page of text without really taking anything in as she waits.

"Could you check?"

As soon as they finish speaking, she responds, autonomously.

"No."

Generally, this is the moment where they either walk off, muttering something about poor management and earning themselves a middle finger salute on their way out, or where they get the smart idea to actually go and look for whatever the hell it is they want.

"Can you assist me in finding an employee that might actually cater to my requests then?"

Apparently, this jackass just couldn't take a hint.

Closing the book with a snap, she glares at the customer, pressing her lips into a thin, hard line as she surveys them with contempt.

Male, tawny skin, nautical stripes, an overabundance of eyeliner, shaggy bangs; all the makings of an annoying, pirate based trend. Wait a minute…

Pirate… _trend_?

The no that ordinarily would have been poised on the tip of her tongue is instead replaced with a healthy dose of incredulity.

"Didn't you burst into coins?"

"Yes." He says stiffly, clearly not wishing to speak further on this evident sore spot, but she barely even registers his reaction.

A thousand little questions pellet her brain, demanding answers. Questions like, _'Well then, why are you alive now?'_, or, _'Is the league reforming?'_, or, _'If you want to try the dangling cage-Princess Peach trick, the Katayanagi twins already beat you to the punch.'_, or ….

"He's proposing." She finally says, her voice level and dull, a stark contrast to her protesting brain.

_The worst response imaginable._

Time begins to trickle by as she watches her daunting statement settle in, the scorching indignation that had once been flowing so freely throughout the male coming to a standstill.

He visibly blanches, his lips trembling as he tries to form some verbal response, though no words come out. He just stares blankly at her, as though he can't fully comprehend the meaning behind her words.

The small part of her that she keeps bound up tightly, possibly with the remnants of that gothic lolita nightmare, hopes she didn't look this bad when Stephen Stills let the news slip.

Second hand again, thanks Scott.

As the minutes tick by, he seems to become aware of the fact that he's gaping at her like some sort of deranged goldfish, because he snaps his jaw shut and narrows his eyes at her.

She barely manages to resist rolling her eyes at him; the only thing that stops her is the fact that she's pretty sure this place doesn't have enough fire insurance to cover batshit insane evil exes and she has to pay her rent somehow.

"Good day." He sneers, looking at her with a completely inaccurate sense of superiority that one of her drumsticks could _oh so easily _fix, before turning his heel and leaving.

_**Ding!**_

She bids farewell to his retreating form by raising one finger up.

_Good riddance. _

Only while contemplating between watching something Japanese, morbid, and depressing versus something Italian, twisted, and macabre does Kim realize something is wrong.

_One. _Her boss is definitely going to dock her pay by the end of today.

_Two. _The League of Evil Exes have possibly returned, namely in the form of one messenger-pirate.

_Three. _He has mystical powers and a grudge against Scott.

_Four. _She's the idiot who just told him about Scott and Ramona's engagement.

No amount of cursing could come close to surmising her feelings at the moment.

Part of her swore Scott deserved this, for all the hell he put her through, for all the hell he keeps putting her through. Something along the lines of just desserts in the form of one rage-induced mauling.

But then she blinks and the image of Scott lying in a coffin flashes through her mind, frail and broken, and all the hatred she has been feeling towards him quickly turns into a self-inflicted wound, festering over with remorse.

She lets out a groan and covers her eyes, trying to quell the thudding that is slowly but surely growing in the back of her skull. Even when he's not around, Scott still manages to give her a migraine.

Just peachy.

Without giving herself another moment to think, she rummages through the returns bin and grabs the topmost dvd, quickly stuffing it in a nearby plastic sack.

_**Ding!**_

For once, Kim Pine is glad for Toronto's bipolar weather. Even though it's already spring, the entire area is covered in a fine veil of snow, a dusting of fresh powder encompassing the entire area; a set of fresh boot-prints mars the otherwise picturesque scenery.

She follows the tracks, weaving in and out through nearby streets and narrow corners, finally pausing to take stock of the winding trails.

Either this guy is still supremely pissed or completely lost; knowing her luck, probably a mix of both.

The screech of metal scraping against brick jars her back to the present, before she traces the sound to a nearby secluded alleyway.

Dark alley; **check**.

Pissed off villain; **check**.

Helpless heroine; well, two out of three isn't bad.

In fact, the only thing this scenario is missing is a couple of chainsaws and countless heinous remakes.

When she finally does brave the march down the alleyway, the sight that greets her is somewhat disarming; in the middle of the path, the male is caught in between kicking and cursing a large metal dumpster to oblivion and back, namely on account of his injured little piggies.

Apparently, in antagonist 101, they didn't cover that kicking large objects made of wrought iron in anything less than steel-toed boots can, and will, hurt.

"Hey, Captain Jack!" She yells, vainly trying to stifle the grin out of her voice.

He turns his head over his shoulder, shooting a piercing glare her way, which only slightly sobers her up.

"My name is Matthew Patel."

"You forgot your dvd." She plainly states, outstretching her arm towards him.

The neon smiley face sways in the breeze, the crinkling of the plastic sack somewhat eerie in the now silent alleyway. With a frown, he marches over to her and snatches the bag out of her grasp.

"You're welcome."

She watches with boredom as he rifles through the sack, pausing when his fingers collide with the plastic rectangle, eyes quickly scanning over the object, his brow furrowing with distaste.

"What is _this_?" His voice is a mixture of acid and incredulity as he pulls the dvd out the bag, brandishing the movie at her as though it's some vile abomination.

Resisting, yet again, the urge to roll her eyes, she peers at the small object, her vision adjusting to the dim streetlamps and grimy surroundings, before registering the title with a barking laugh.

Sappy, corporate, nauseating; all the makings of one _cheesy _chick-flick.

"You've Got Mail? Ooo, you've got bad taste Jack."

"It's _**Matthew Patel**_!" He screeches, a wave of mystical aura erupting throughout the alleyway, the blast shattering out all nearby windows (and most likely, the remnants of her eardrums).

"Yeah, you're probably going to have to pay for that…"

She barely has time to blink before a jolt of fire whirls past her, the dumpster now nothing more than a charred, twisted hunk of metal, wisps of steams hissing from it.

"Give me one reason why I shouldn't maim you where you stand." He snarls, the scent of sulfur rising in the air, sparks dancing across the tips of his fingers.

"Because I'm in the same boat as you." The response is quick, almost to the point of being flippant, though the words are sharp enough to pierce.

A sudden wave of nausea sweeps over her, and for once, she wishes her smart-mouth would know when to shut up; truth and familiar territory isn't something she is keen on sharing with a psychopath at the moment.

The flames begin to flicker, sparks dancing amongst the swirling snow, before dying out into a faint ember. All it takes is a few words to drain what little is left of the fight in him.

"Are the others coming back?" She asks quietly, her eyes now burning holes through the tops of her scuffed sneakers.

The few seconds of silence is suffocating, as she resists the innate urge to fidget; really, the only thing worse than hearing a blood-thirsty mob ischasing after Scott would be hearing it while twiddling her thumbs and shifting her feet.

"I don't know. If they regenerate, it won't be anytime soon."

_So at least he's relatively safe for the moment then__._

"Right."

Nodding her head, Kim turns her heel and continues down the alleyway. If memory serves her right (and it does), Sneaky Dee's is only about another block from here.

"Where are you going?" He calls out before jogging after her, his feet matching her own tempo beat for beat.

"To drown out my sorrows in tequila or piss-poor beer. Whichever's cheaper." Kim snorts, shoving her hands down into the pockets of her track jacket as she strolls along the pathway.

Right now, getting plastered seems like a better way to spend the remaining hours of her evening instead of killing hours at a discount video-store. If she got written up for ditching work, well, she'd deal with that in the morning; it's not like people were lining up at the door for her job.

"May I join you?" His voice is so soft she can barely hear it above the white noise, and immediately understands the question for it is; silent plea to escape from reality, if just for one moment, to know that _this_ isn't as terminal as it feels.

She pauses, rolling over her bottom lip in between her teeth; by the time she start walking again, the skin has grown into a raw, ruddy color.

"Whatever." It isn't a brilliant response, it isn't romantic, it isn't even nice; the only thing it actually is, is Kim.

And as the _pain in the_ _ass/messenger pirate/Captain Jack/__**Matthew Patel**_ jogs to catch up with her, she can almost feel the curves of her lips upturn. Almost.

"Hey pirate boy, drinks are on you."

.

.

.

"IT'S MATTHEW PATEL!"

.

And even when relationships fade to grey, some things never quite change.


End file.
